Marianne Murphy Zarzana: "Saying Our Names"

Notice how just one syllable—

say Jack—can expand and become

the world, round and whole,

when it is a child’s name

being formed by a mother’s mouth.

I’ve overheard women in stores and airports,

restaurants and trains, sprinkling their talk

with the name of a brand new baby or

a grown child, say Morgen or Nora,

Michael or Kyle, Joseph or Ava-Rose,

singing each vowel and consonant

so they stand out, resonate

a pure bell whether the tone struck

be proud and strong, a major key,

or a diminished minor note.

Sometimes, when my daughter catches

her own name, Elaine May, part of a story

I am telling a sister over the phone,

later she’ll ask, quasi-annoyed,

were you talking about me?

Yes, endlessly, shamelessly, I tell stories

about you. I say those fluid syllables,

chosen for the meaning—light—

the music, and to honor your grandmothers,

chosen after discarding countless names.

Yes, I say them again and again and wonder

at the world they have become. Is this

how God says our names? Is this why sometimes

when I hear the wind rustling through the trees,

I turn and listen?

"Saying Our Names" by Marianne Murphy Zarzana. Published in Dust & Fire, 2002.   

Image: "Storyteller," acrylic painting by Kate Langlois (originally full color).